Collected Works
by Adverage
Summary: When artifact-based murders begin popping up all over Colorado Pete and Myka are called in to investigate but the familiar nature of the deaths may point to an even bigger problem. Written with the style and pacing of an episode. H.G/Myka
1. Introduction

The greenhouse was always tropical, even when the Colorado winters swept in you could feel the wet-heat radiating from the little glass hut in the backyard. Some nights she thought she felt it pushing through the studs of their bedroom wall, filling her with anxiety. Even the idea of that heat made her itch and despite her husbands enthusiasm, his mealtime lectures on the wonders of botany and the home-grown bouquets he now and then applied as an apology she had remained unconvinced at the glory of, what was to her, only a stuffy room full of plants. Her bitterness had rooted since the structures installation as her husband, a man of delicate obsession, spent more time elbows deep in dirt than at their dinner table.

Tonight was no different, the glowing digits of her alarm clock reminded her of his lateness to bed, ticking adamantly towards two in the morning. Lying there several moments longer unable to find comfort, her loneliness slowly swelled into rage until she had riled herself to standing. In the kitchen the wet-slap of her feet across the tile paused for a moment as she was hit be a sudden gust of humid air wafting from the screen door that filled the whole main floor of the house with the scent of compost. In the backyard the light of the greenhouse showed the shadow of its door left ajar. The uncharacteristic nature of this action stirred a nervous tension along the line of her stomach; from the kitchen drawer she extracted a cooking knife under the delusion that it might protect her. Inching out across the dew-soaked lawn, the grass pinching and tickling like mites, she began to call her husbands name.

"Louis! Louis, are you in there?"

There had been more than one night when she'd had to wake him from a sudden bout of exhaustion, him having fallen asleep at his desk, hands still caked with topsoil; her anger having so ebbed into fear she had a hope that this night would end similarly, that she would enter the greenhouse and find him asleep. Finally reaching the open door she looked in, peering around the shifting leaves of her husband's beloved flora. After a few moments of her shouting yielding nothing she realized she would have to continue forward. Her first steps were hesitant knowing that once past the first row of vegetable planters she would be able to see his desk and for better or worse the question of her fear would be answered. She scooted the distance, still calling but knowing now that had he been simply asleep the noise would have woken him. Or would it? He was a heavy sleeper and would sometimes work with headphones on. With that hope that she made her final steps, rounding the tomato plant Rebecca Eliason dropped her kitchen knife and screamed.


	2. Part One

In a bed and breakfast in South Dakota H.G Wells was reading modernist literature. Univille, though pitiful by way of entertainment, did posses a modest library of which she had taken full advantage. Indulging her love of literature had led her to begin an exploration of those eras that she had, as Claudia had taken to putting it, "missed." So far she was unimpressed.

The stairs creaked with the burden of footfalls.

"You're still up?"

"A good book is a terrible lullaby."

Myka's hair was wild from sleep; her sweatpants had been pulled on inside out, the mistake having gone unnoticed in the dark of her room and the grogginess of just waking.

"I thought you and Hemingway weren't getting along?"

"We have reached an agreement, I am going to forgive his lack of delicacy in appreciation of his honesty. "

Myka had come into the circle of her reading lamp where the light turned soft against the skin of her cheek, free from make-up, as she observed the titles that had recently migrated towards the 'completed' pile. H.G caught for a moment the hint of distress in her movements akin to someone who had run a great distance and was attempting to suppress their shortness of breath. The expression was there for only a moment before Myka turned her head to smile at her, a toothed smile that begged explanation of her thoughts.

"And what about you?"

"What? Are you asking if I like Hemingway?"

"Though I would like nothing more than a discussion of literary taste with you I was more inquiring as to why you're awake."

Myka's eyes took on a distance then returned to focus with the effort of shrugging off whatever was bothering her, "No reason, just woke up and couldn't get back to sleep."

"So you thought you'd come join me for story time. I'm flattered."

Her sarcasm had no bite, only playfulness.

"I was thinking more along the line of a midnight snack actually."

"That could be arranged."

There was a smirk in her statement.

The thought, somewhat suggestive when proposed by Helena, rid her of any smart responses and so H.G continued, "Plus, I like to think I'm more entertaining than warm milk."

Heated dairy seemed to become a different idea entirely.

"Or I could read you a bed time story, I'm sure one of mine will fit the bill. Charles took occasion to get rather long-winded in more than one interpretation of my ideas."

"Thanks but I remember most of your short stories ending with insanity or death by medical malfeasance."

H.G's eyes lit.

"So you've read them."

The admission suddenly seemed embarrassing, as if her having read them proved something of intimate importance. She had read them once when she was younger and then now recently and more than once in the interest of reacquainting herself with the H.G Wells of her pre-warehouse days as well as the one sitting in front of her. Myka was a firm believer that writing could teach you things about a person that conversation could not.

"Of course, we have a second edition collection at my father's bookstore."

Sometimes conversation with H.G felt like a game of chest, the pieces were on the board but the motives were not.

H.G examined her, keeping her smile and giving Myka the feeling that they were not speaking of stories.

"Did you have a favorite?"

It was difficult with Helena to discern which questions were asked with genuine interest and which were asked with the purpose of stroking her ego. There was a sudden spray of urgent knocks against the front door and H.G's question became a trap she had escaped. Before anyone had bothered to answer it the door was pushed open and Artie stuck his head through, expressing no surprise at their being awake nor together so close to three in the morning.

"Oh good, you're up I'll probably need you to help me drag Pete out of bed, you have a ping."

"Couldn't it wait until morning?"

He had already begun clomping up the stairs but shouted back, "It's the kind of ping that kills people, you have ten minutes to get ready."

* * *

"Louis Eliason, thirty, a botanist working on his PhD."

The Eliason's backyard was bathed in the manufactured brightness of half a dozen floodlights, on the Colorado horizon the sun was beginning its competitive bid.

"And this was how you found the body?"

The detective nodded, "The wife found the body but nothing's been moved."

Her hair tamed and clothes on in the right direction Myka looked as put together as five in the morning would allow, Pete had been less concerned with his appearance. His shirt hem was stuffed haphazardly into the waistband of his pants; he'd forgotten a belt and his hair remained mussed. A pout had taken up position on his face during the car ride and refused retreat as he followed Myka towards the back of the greenhouse, managing just enough energy to comment on the temperature.

"Just what I needed, a tropical vacation at five in the morning."

"Mr. Eliason was apparently working on some experimental plant species that required the high humidity."

Their escort, who no doubt cursed his luck at pulling the graveyard shift, had listened with patience to their fumbled explanations of why two members of the secret service were investigating the death of a botanist.

"I'll be out in front of the greenhouse if either of you need me."

"Thank you detective."

At his departure their voices lowered, they had left the realm of the professional for the truth of their purpose.

"There's no way this guy was working with something experimental enough to pull up its roots and vine-strangle him right? Cause I am way too tired to do battle with Poison Ivy right now."

Pete shuffled through the closest plants, stopping for a moment to play with one of their broad, oddly colored leaves. Myka kneeled down to examine the body, giving Pete a look, "Really? That's not in your 'top five ways to die.'"

"Nah, didn't quite crack the top five and I'll be honest I'm surprised you know who Poison Ivy is."

"Only the basics but I don't remember her ever draining the blood from her victims, Pete come look at this."

Louis Eliason have been attractive in an academic context, he was light-haired and skinny with a long nose on which rested a pair of broken spectacles most likely cracked from the fall that took him out of his desk chair. The thin lines of his cheeks were pocked with freckles but above them loomed circles where it appeared the skin had been punctured.

"Yeah, I don't think Batman ever got Dracula'd, so this looks more like artifact territory. See those circles? Those look like marks where leeches were attached. I got one once when I went to the lake with my dad, those things give me the willies. Please tell me there isn't an artifact that can summon a hoard of leeches."

"I don't know," Myka removed the glasses and turned them in her purple-gloved hand, nothing seemed out of place about them. She patted down his pockets, nothing, and so she stood up. For a moment Myka looked at the body with intense focus as if trying to see through him into whatever had caused his death.

"Something up Mykes?"

"I don't think so, theres just something about this thats familiar. Like I've seen it before."

The look fled, she shook it off.

"Okay, why don't you look around here and see if this guy found Bram Stoker's flower pot or something and if Artie calls tell him to search for anything having to do with draining blood or maybe leeches or plant artifacts if those exist. I'm gonna go talk to Louis' wife."

* * *

H.G's hand hovered over a leather spine, from the corner of Myka's room came the rattling of her ferret shifting around in its cage. Myka's room was largely inhabited by books, where other women might keeps shoes she had an old trunk loaded with an eclectic collection of well-worn paperbacks. The collectibles she kept on the shelf all arranged according to some unknown order. This habit of order extended beyond her literary interests; there were no clothes on the floor or wrinkles in the bedspread and there was no decoration that did not serve a practical purpose. It had been difficult to keep these visits unnoticed, while at first her interest had been pure curiosity sated by sight the urge to touch, rifle and investigate had grown exponentially, reigned only by her knowledge of the danger in leaving clues. That wasn't to say someone hadn't taken notice.

"Twice in a week, you know I'm going to have to tell Myka eventually."

If the sudden intrusion on her act of intruding had surprised her then she showed no symptom.

"The justice of tattling is somewhat diminished by having kept it a secret so long."

Leena was not put off by the truth in her statement and did not retreat from the doorway where she stood, her arms crossed and brow knitted with the distress of wrongdoing.

"What's your excuse this time?"

"I'm looking for a book."

"You have a mountain of books downstairs in my living room."

"Well, I'm looking for my book and by that I mean the one that I had a heavy hand in creating which I might argue gives me a certain right to it wouldn't you?"

Her tone danced between annoyed and sarcastic, "So you allowing me to focus on finding it might rid us both of this trespass a bit sooner."

Leena refused to relent.

"Did anyone ever tell you I could read auras?"

H.G continued her tour unhindered by the moral concerns of her audience.

"I do bet that's a neat trick."

Leena rolled her eyes, "It's anything but a trick and I can tell you there's more than one thing I can let slip to Myka if you don't stop going through her things."

H.G finally paused.

"Tell me then, am I coming off a little blue today?"

"Most of the time your aura is brass, like licking a key-"

"You're tasting my aura now are you?"

"Except for when you're around Myka."

"Right, I suppose its all pink or something ridiculous."

"No, it's red. Dark red."

* * *

Pete and Myka's faces flickered into view, crowding the Farnsworth's porthole of a screen.

"We got nothing Artie, its looks like he was working on something but we couldn't find it. The wife says when she went out to check on him the greenhouse door was open."

"So we're thinking someone came in, killed him to steal his work and left?"

Pete shrugged, "Maybe? We don't exactly have very much to go on. How about you? Any fun new leech-based artifacts?"

Artie adjusted his glasses, "Nothing definite, a few hits on plant-based artifacts, Mendel's gloves for instance but nothing with this kind of lethality. Claudia may be able to provide some new eyes for me if she ever wakes up but until then I'll keep looking. In the meantime you two need to get moving, there's been another incident about an hour and a half east of your current location."

Myka's face loomed dominant on the screen.

"Artie, an hour east that's-"

"Coloado Springs, exactly, so get a move on."


	3. Part Two

_Thank you guys for the follows, favorites and reviews. :) - K_

* * *

Myka's childhood could always be recalled by the dusty smell of shelved books and the stubborn squeak of the stiff leather couch in the front of the shop. She'd grown up in oak and bronze book-ends, squinting to read in the dark after her father had ordered her on two separate occasions to go to sleep. Much of that girl, dark-haired, clever and possessed by a grand notion of purpose pulled from her most recent read had persisted into adulthood and regardless of the context for the visit it was nice to be home amid the trappings of her youth.

Rebecca Delie, the second victim of the case, was found dead in a maintenance tunnel to which she had no method of access and Myka Bering was tired. As far as she could tell Ms. Delie's death had nothing to do with their previous victim, no blood had been drawn, no plants had been present and yet Artie insisted on the importance of a link. She wasn't seeing it; then again it was getting more difficult to focus.

Sleep had been challenging and punctuated by constant, bizarre dreams. She didn't need Pete's vibes to know that they presaged something sinister and even if they proved to be benign, becoming a dream seer was not something she had the time for, she finished another mug of coffee.

Across from her at the kitchen table her mother pulled a face, "I never understood how you and your father can drink coffee without sugar or at least milk."

Her father was on a trip to Denver bringing books for auction but her mother had been happy to set them up with a temporary base of operations as well as a place to sleep as the time table on the case was currently indefinite. Myka slid the empty mug away from her, "I never understood why Tracy would waste money on three frappuccinos a day. Those things are like drinking syrup."

"Isn't that just the whole of your relationship in a nutshell?"

Jeannie stood picking up Myka's cup to bring it to the sink; regardless of her husbands behaviors she was a firm believer in the fact that a child was never too old to be mothered.

Myka smiled at the gesture, "Mom, you don't have to do that."

"World-saving government job or not when you visit I get to take care of you, plus you look exhausted sweetheart, maybe you should go take a nap?"

It was a tempting proposition but not one she planned to indulge.

"When have I ever been the type of person to take afternoon naps? I'm fine, really."

Even to her it sounded like a pretty pitiful diversion but the appeal to let her sleeping habits be dropped from further conversation was, to her surprise, accepted and her mother didn't push the issue, choosing instead to begin on the dishes from their most recent meal. The quiet was filled with the sound of running water until Myka remembered a purpose she had been considering.

"Hey mom do you know where that old collection of H.G Wells stories is? I didn't get to finish it last time I came home."

"Haven't you read those stories enough to be able to recite them?"

"Very fun, the novels yes, I haven't read her-" she fumbled over the pronoun, "His. His short stories since before I moved out."

"Well, I haven't seen it but you could call your father, he'd know."

"No, it's okay, no need to bother him on his trip I was just wondering if it was around."

She had thought of bringing it back as a gift for Helena but realized she may not be as excited by the novelty as Myka herself was and that giving a person a collection of their own stories seemed foolhardy. It was strange to have known a person before knowing them, to have read The Island of Doctor Morrow or The Time Machine and idolized the genius of a visionary with whom she now traded quips over breakfast. She had loved that book long before she'd ever considered the woman and she thought giving it to H.G might help explain the difficulty of grasping her, of compromising a life of literary ardor with the flirtatious remarks of the woman she knew.

"I'm sure he won't mind if you call."

"Really, it's fine, I was just interested in it for a friend."

Her mother fell into silence as if Myka's most recent statement confirmed something she had been suspecting and as was her habit she couldn't leave it unspoken.

"Myka, are you seeing someone?"

"What?"

"I'm not trying to meddle, I just mean the lack of sleep and the last time I've heard you ask for a book for a friend was when you had a crush on that boy in college and wanted to give him a first edition for Christmas."

"Mom!"

"I'm happy if you are! I know after Sam things were hard for you and-"

"Mom I'm not seeing anyone."

"Myka it's fine, you can tell me if you are, I won't tell your father if that's what you're worried about."

Tired, she ran her hands back along her temples and into her hair, staring at the table. This wasn't the conversation she needed right now.

"Fine, yes, there's somebody," The words came out of her mouth before she could think to stop them, admitting to the crime, even if she hadn't committed it, would take less time than insisting on her innocence, "Just, somebody I know from work but I don't really know where its going, if its going anywhere so I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Is it Pete?"

Myka might have laughed, "God no."

That was not the person she had in mind, which led her to the realization that she did, in fact, have someone in mind.

"I thought the book would make a nice gift, it's sort of their era."

"Is he a lot older than you?"

"Oh, no, that's not what I- well, more like an….old soul."

Her mother beamed at the prospect of her half-imagined romance, the confession, false or otherwise, had been worth lifting her mom's mood.

From downstairs came the tinkling of the shop bell followed by Pete's voice, "Mykes!"

"Yeah, I'm upstairs."

There was a series of clomping steps that led from the front room up the stairs and into the kitchen.

"Hey."

"Hello Peter."

"Hey Mrs. Bering, doing good?"

"Of course, its nice to have the two of you back in town, would you like me to make you something to eat?"

Any thought of the investigation was eradicated at the mention of a meal. His hands went instinctively to his stomach as if to cup a nonexistent gut, his face blanked with anticipation.

"That would be awesome, do you think I could get one or two of those egg things you made last time we were here?"

"Pete, really?"

"No, it's fine Myka. I'll bring a tray into the sitting room if the two of you need to talk about work."

"You're a super hero Mrs. B."

Myka pulled her partner into the adjacent room, thanking her mother on the way out as the sounds of clanking pans commenced.

"Did anything come up in the interviews?"

Pete sat down at the edge of the couch, resting his elbows on his knees as his attention returned to the matter at hand.

"Uh, yeah not really," He leaned to peek into the kitchen, "There was an old college friend she got coffee with the other day, said she said some pretty weird stuff about a creepy door."

The idea sprang to Myka's mind so fast that there was little she could do to keep it from showing on her face.

"Yes, I love that face, that's the 'Myka's-figured-something-out' face."

"Maybe, this friend, did they say anything else? About the door or, you know, where Rebecca saw it?"

Pete was excited at the possible break; his memory of the information came easier.

"He said she'd been seeing a weird green door and it was really freaking her out, she'd even started talking to a doctor about it. Does that mean something? Please tell me it means something."

Myka's look of discovery turned suddenly to worry.

"Myka?"

"Yeah, give me a second I just need to check something."

Before Pete could think to inquire further Myka had left the room.

* * *

H.G hadn't done inventory in over a century but the exercise had maintained its calming properties. Time spent between the shelves and amid the dusty remains of the once powerful and dangerous offered her a rare serenity. She was loath to leave it for the compulsory duty of filing the catalog reports. In the office Claudia and Artie were running the gamut of research surrounded by folios and screens of information.

"Looks like you pair are having fun."

Neither stirred from their purpose, she was surprised Claudia even lifted her head to acknowledge her arrival.

"Oh yeah, loads, you ever Google leeches? It's a barrel of laughs."

"I can't say I've had the pleasure of much 'Googling' in my life if you'd believe it."

"Shocking."

H.G stood for a moment before realizing that Claudia did not intend to supply an explanation.

"So we're dealing with leeches are we? How charming."

There was in her an insatiable urge to be of value to the investigation.

"Not exactly, dude got giga-drained in his greenhouse, wife found him."

H.G took up a position behind Claudia at the terminal, observing the crime scene photos that flashed across the screen. As the images continued their march a look of concern began to bloom until her mouth was set in a frown, her brow bunching at the center with a sensation of déjà vu. It was a look, unbeknownst to either herself or Myka that they shared at precisely the same moment.

H.G's mobile rang.

It had taken her nearly no time upon reawakening to master such small new technologies; in fact she found the possible variations of ringtones to be endearing. She excused herself to the walkway to take the call.

"Wells speaking."

"Helena."

"Myka, lovely to hear your voice, are your parents doing well?"

Even she couldn't deny she was playing it up. Myka's tone stopped her teasing.

"Helena, tell me you're not evil again."

"So you've noticed it as well, good."

"That the murders are based on your short stories, yes, I've noticed. Helena is this you?"

She ignored the bulk of the question.

"Murders? Then there's been more than one. What's the second?"

"The Door in the Wall, she was found in a maintenance tunnel, does your asking mean you're not evil?"

"I promise I've nothing to do with it."

She heard Myka exhale relief.

"I know, I know its not you I mean how would you even be able to pull this off…actually don't answer that. I'm gonna tell Pete, I guess you can tell Artie and then I think you should probably come here to help."

"Agreed."

"Okay, I'll see you then."

There was a moment of pause intended for a good-bye, instead she added, "And Myka-"

"Uh-huh?"

She held the words for a second; unsure of them, as per Leena's warning she was reminded of dark red.

"Do be careful, the thought of you being hurt by one of my creations is the only thing I can think of that might be more unpleasant than you being harmed at all."

Myka didn't respond for a moment and then, speaking as if smiling said, "I'll do my best not to ruin your day getting killed by poison thorns."

"Ah, the Treasure in the Forest, so is that one your favorite?"

"I'll see you soon Helena."

* * *

Myka had hoped that the lead might provide some peace of mind and that progress in the case could assuage her fear of sleep. She'd even allowed herself a bit of security in the fact that H.G was on her way, that the investigation would soon adopt her expertise and confidence. Instead the realizations had only stood to enhance her insomnia, if the artifact was enacting H.G Wells stories there were all sorts of terrible things to be associated with bad dreams. She intended to mention it when H.G arrived, holding out hope until then that they meant nothing.

Regardless, lying down to sleep had only amounted to another of her strange dreams and the impossible task of returning to sleep. Her darkened childhood bedroom had provided little comfort in the wake of her nightmare and instead she'd decided on the common remedy of fifteen years ago. However, being unable to find a skating rink open that late, she'd begun to walk instead.

The old neighborhood had changed, the recession having removed many of the mom and pop storefronts that had lined the streets and new condo complexes were erected in equal numbers. Some landmarks had remained; the library boasted a refurbished glass front but the same worn pillars and yellow-tinged outdoor lights and the baseball field was the same save for the dugout fences now canopied with Ivy and pocked in weeds. A bar several blocks from the bookshop had been in operation as long as she could remember and though it seemed to have changed names it was still what it had always been. She must have just missed last call as its patrons began to empty onto the sidewalk across the street.

The presence of other people calmed her a bit, smoothing the static of nervous anticipation but the feeling evaporated nearly as soon as it'd settled. Shouts rose from the group of men and she turned to see them clotted a few feet away from the bar's exit, one or two kneeling as if to assist someone who had fallen. Someone yelled to get help and one of the men ran back to the bar front to pound on the glass and gesticulate towards whoever had been hurt. Their voices coalesced into a jumble of panic.

"I don't know what happened! He just skipped up and collapsed!"

"Why's he dressed like that?"

"Do you know him? Does anyone here know this guy?"

Myka began across the street, first slow and then sprinting, she hadn't failed to bring her badge along with her (in fact she'd even taken the characteristic precaution of arming herself). A shout of, "Government Agent" cleared her a path.

At the center of the commotion lay a man, his limbs set to unsettling angles and his neck twisted. He was dressed in a strangely, his suit was handsome but crumpled and drenched. Algae stuck to his sleeves as if he'd been swimming in a pond. A second man kneeled over him, attempting frantically to revive him. Myka put a hand on his shoulder but he swatted her away.

"Sir, I'm a member of the secret service and I have to ask you to step away from that body."

The man was drunk but his attempts were practiced hinting at a day job in medicine, he continued despite her, frenzied, grunting between compressions of the man's chest.

"He's only a body if I can't save him."

He was dead, that was clear by the twisted state of his neck, but not having the strength to stop him she made no further effort hoping perhaps, as the man trying to revive him must have hoped, that will alone could save him.

It did not.


End file.
